Everything about the place seemed to balance on the edge of something. The magnetized anchors and repulsor fields didn’t seem to be doing a good job of keeping the building from swaying, while across from them, the structures suspended by chains stretched between floating districts looked almost ridiculous with the signs Convenient Store and Barber Shops on them. The vehicles formed their own roads—some hovered inches above the ground, gliding silently on antigrav lifts, while others darted through the air in unpredictable arcs, zipping between the floating skyscrapers like reckless dragonflies. A deep, resonant thrumm reverberated from the heavier cargo haulers as their stabilizers struggled against the gravity fields. Above were the louder, sporadic whooshes of high-speed flyers cutting sharp turns through the skyline.
There were no traffic lanes, only instinct and sheer nerve.
Sloan grumbled as a floating ad-drone swooped too close, flashing a ‘LUXURY VACATIONS ON VA’RITHE—10% OFF’ holographic display right in her face. She swatted it aside with a scowl. “This place doesn’t believe in personal space.”
Priest followed Sloan’s exact footstep. His eyes remained glue to his holo-display, reading over the latest text exchange between them and the archive office.
ARCHIVE REQ. RESPONSE:
Your request for database access has been received. Processing time: Estimated 4-7 business days.
He typed out a response with his eye movements.
PRIEST: We need access today. Urgent.
The response was instantaneous.
ARCHIVE RESPONSE: Physical requests must be filed in person. Visit the local representative office for further assistance.
“Should not have called it public information then,” he muttered as he locked his display.
They shuffled through the city, stepping onto a floating transit platform that nudged them before gliding forward. Priest eyed a group of locals ahead, their long-limbed figures clad in breathable, form-fitting fabric. The ones who drifted above the ground like specters had modified clothing with built-in stabilizers. As they passed, Sloan caught one of them effortlessly vaulting over a railing and caught the air with their wings as they floated down to a lower walkway.
Sloan asked, “No luck?”
Priest shook his head, but said nothing else.
Sloan squeezed her forehead and picked up the pace.
Priest kept up with her. “I do not suppose you have another plan?”
“I read the fine print. It says that if a representative is unavailable, you can bypass the initial filing process by providing a corporate identification code from any registered corporate entity on the planet. If we’re able to provide an official credential, specifically one from an authorized corporate or government entity, they can issue access immediately.” She stopped for a second. “I know some people who are not physically on Mendax, but they might have a registered subsidiary here.”
“Do you think you can call in favors in this state?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if my comm line is locked yet.” She hadn’t tried calling her dad, and her dad hadn’t tried calling her. “It shouldn’t. I have a private line just in case things go wrong usurping Shiya.”
“Good thinking.”
Sloan neurally inserted a command onto her holo-display, scrolling through her contacts before settling on one: Yishi – Altair Holdings. She pressed the dial button.
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Nothing.
The call screen flashed INSUFFICIENT FUNDS FOR INTERGALACTIC CONNECTION before the line cut out.
She stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary before exhaling through her teeth and shutting off the display.
Sloan turned to Priest, then turned away as she muttered, “Priest.”
Priest raised an eyebrow. “You need to borrow a few ducats?”
“I need to borrow a few ducats.”
“You did not think that far, did you?”
“I—I didn’t think I would need this line this early.”
Priest said nothing, but she caught the faintest tilt of his head. A pause. Almost like he’d noticed the hesitation in her voice—and wasn’t expecting it. She had tried her best to not stammer over her words in her early corpo days, particularly around him.
But that doesn’t matter so much anymore, does it? She asked herself.
He sent her the creds without further questioning.
Sloan redialed.
The call barely rang twice before a familiar voice picked up. “Altair Holdings, Yishi speaking—”
“Yishi. I need you to do me a favor,” Sloan said, in a voice so composed, demanding, almost arrogant.
“Sloan?” Sloan then heard a sharp but interrupted inhale. “I heard you def—” She cut herself off, clearing her throat. “I mean, I heard you definitely went down with a cold and had to relocate for treatment.”
“I’m recovering. It’s all good.”
“That must’ve been tough. Nobody told us anything. I could’ve taken a day off to visit.”
“It happens.”
“So where did you relocate to?”
Sloan paused for a second. She could feel Priest’s stare boring into her ears. “Somewhere with less oversight. Fresh air, too.”
“Fresh air. That’s rare these days. I assume you’re settling in well?”
“I keep busy.”
“I like to think so. It’s not Sloan Albrecht without overworking herself. It helps to have someone who knows how to handle . . . delicate matters.” Her voice was a pitch higher. “So! Really, just say the word. I can pull some strings. Even get a package sent your way if you need supplies. Just tell me where to—”
Priest whispered, “Cut it off.”
Sloan did. The line went dead in an instant as she shut off the display. “I was going to cut it off,” she said in a nonchalant voice. “I won’t let a conversation drag on into trackable territory.”
Priest held her gaze for a moment longer before giving a single nod. “Good.”
“Can you believe what she just said?” She scoffed. “Relocating for a cold?” But Priest did not reply.
“I have someone else,” she said.
But all the ‘someones’ that he had were professional contacts, and as close as she think she might have been with some of them, they were just that. Professionals. Professionals that would sell her out to save their own skins.
There was only one option left: call her dad.
Sloan stared at the contact for a long second before pressing the dial.
The line rang once. Twice. Three times. A full minute passed before the connection clicked open.
She braced herself for the piercing sharpness in his voice, the immediate reprimand, the accusations. But none of that came.
Instead, there was silence.
The kind of silence stretched across light-years and lodged itself between unsaid words.
“Father,” she said.
Then he spoke. “Sloan.” He didn’t sound angry.
Disappointment bled through the static like eye drops dripping on her lens—a second of stinging followed by a single shed of tear. It was there in the way he spoke her name, like he was tasting the weight of it and finding it odd and alien.
There was another pause, long enough that she thought the connection might have dropped. But then he said, “What do you need?”
Sloan swallowed. “I need a corporate identification code registered on Bor’tho, Mendax-12. One that can bypass a local database restriction.”
“I will handle that. Keep your line connected.” Then he put the line on hold.
Sloan let out a slow breath before glancing up at Priest. His hazy grey eyes locked somewhere just past her, as if he were considering something else entirely. He wasn’t looking at her anymore, but he had been, just a second ago. That much she was sure of.
A Bor’than, with her wing-like membranes attached to her long limbs, glided over her head. Sloan looked up and stared at the figure above until she was out of sight. How Sloan wished she could have a pair of membranes like that and float mid-air right now.
“We should keep moving,” she said in a lower voice.
He nodded once. They walked.
’s:
The rattling of the Black Fang’s engine had traversed its way into Gravel’s bones. He exhaled, slow, steady, resting his head back against the bulkhead. His shoulder still ached from where the shrapnel had grazed him, but the pain was already dulling, blending into the background like every other wound he’d picked up over the years. The kind he just learned to live with.
Hunter sat beside him, silent now. Her breathing had evened out, but she was still much too tense for her usual self. She wasn’t the kind of person to get sentimental, but she also wasn’t the kind to say things she didn’t mean. I was worried for you earlier. Gravel had heard a dozen variations of those words from a dozen different people, but coming from her, it carried a weight he wasn’t sure what to do with. It was made more than apparent for himself that he was never well-equipped for those conversations to begin with.
Maybe it’s time to stop rolling the dice. That scrawny scrapyard back on Zizi’s planet doesn’t look so bad now.
His gaze drifted toward the holo-display on his wrist. Of course, Zizi’s unread message was still there. The one he insisted to be no more than just a spare part dealer to him.
She’d sent it yesterday. He hadn’t even looked at it. Hadn’t had the time, between dodging bullets and barely making it out of Namor-4 in one piece. Now, with everything still and quiet, he realized just how long that was. Even if he replied right now, she wouldn’t get it for another week. And then it’d be another week before he heard back. They were too far away to establish a direct comm line.
He dimmed the display. He’d reply. Soon. Probably.